Black Molly
by WendyDust
Summary: Molly Murphy fell in with one of the most notorious gangs in Hell's Kitchen when she was running from her past. Now the Dead Rabbits are preparing for war- why, and with whom, Molly doesn't know; but when she is forced to infiltrate the Brooklyn Newsies, she may learn more than she wants...
1. Chapter 1: Hell's Kitchen

The star had five points. Worth. Baxter. Park. Five spokes turned the fiery wheel below Hell's Kitchen.

Molly dashed into the intersection and made a beeline for Worth, darting between mud-splattered horses and shit-splattered men. Halfway across the square she nearly bowled over a ham-armed woman carrying a basket of laundry. "Sorry, miss," Molly called over her shoulder . She hadn't gotten more than five steps before:

"HEY, YA FILTHY SNOTTAH! GIT BACK HERE!"

Molly slipped a jingling pouch into the pocket of her vest and sped up. She emerged from the Points on the far side of Worth and slowed to a walk. She snuck a quick look back over her shoulder; the ham-armed woman was long-gone, lost in the sweaty bustle of midday. Smirking, Molly lifted a hand to her vest pocket and froze. There was a clinking next to her ear. Grey eyes narrowed, and suddenly a very stout boy found himself trapped in a headlock, a heavy wooden mallet poised inches above the crown of his skull. The boy's plump arms windmilled frantically, waving the pouch in front of her face.

"Lay off, Moll, Jesus, it's me, Rollah!"

Molly spit good-naturedly into his brown curls before shoving him away. He tossed the pouch back to her and dusted himself off. She looked him up and down.

"So whatta you doin' so far from the Row, Rollsy? Ain't you got suppah to worry about? 'Cuz last I heard, da Rabbits ain't been too pleased wit' the evenin' stew. They think the cook has been savin' the best for hisself lately, if ya catch my drift," Molly said, poking the handle of the mallet into the soft pad of his belly. Roller looked down and shrugged.

"I eat the same as the rest a' youse, the same lousy shit. It ain't my fault Mallet's a cheap bastid who won't buy a head o' meat unless it's rottin' offa the bone. I does what I can wit' it, and if they don' like it, they can take it up wit' Mallet hisself."

Molly tossed back her curls and hooted. "They's fightin' woids, Rollsy. You gonna spit in Happy Jack's soup and tell him ta fuck off next time he grabs ya?" She grabbed him by the meaty scruff of his neck and bent his ear to her lips. "And what revoltin' slop will you be treatin' us to this evening, Mistah Rollah?" she breathed through clenched teeth, mouth frozen in a mirthless grin. Roller laughed nervously as she released him.

"Well, maybe not dat. I ain't too woirried about Happy Jack anyway, seein' as how he don' come 'round to the Row too much anymore. Spends all his time up at Tammany now. But listen Moll, I been lookin' all ovah for ya. I'm here 'cuz Mallet sent me. He wants ya back at the Row."

Molly's eyebrows shot up into a dark tangle of fringe. "Mallet sent _you_? Wheah's Cuttah?"

Roller shrugged again. "Dunno. Doesn't mattah. Mallet didn' say nothin' 'bout Cuttah, but he seemed pretty shahp on me gettin' you in." He glanced around nervously at the roiling street, where a red-painted whore was parading herself amongst the sea of grays and grubby yellows. "We should go before it gets dahk, anyway. The Points is Monk Eastman's territahry, it ain't no place fah us—"

Molly shook her head. "Speak fah yaself. Youse gettin' softa on me every day, Rollsy, I sweah it. I think da Rabbits might be right about you and dat stew." As they headed west, she twirled the mallet deftly between her fingers. Roller eyed her warily.

"You can put dat away, now. I was just playin' befoah, ya know," he said defensively.

Molly snorted. "I knews it was you da whole time, Rollah. Dat was _me_ playin' wit _you._"

"Yeah, yeah, shuah, cuz you didn't look so sahprised or nuttin'," he countered.

"I was _sahprised_ dat my very own friend Rollah would be slow enough to let hisself get caught by a goil." With a smirk, Molly spun the mallet up into the air and caught it again by the handle. "But I'll give you anothah chance, cuz that's just the kinda goil I am. Race ya home, Rollah!"

She slipped the mallet neatly into her belt loop and took off towards the river.

"YA DOITY CHEATAH!" Roller yelped before lurching into a gallop behind her.

** … **

Molly rounded onto Thirty-Ninth and made for a squat, run-down old building sandwiched between rickety tenements. She skidded through the open doorway, bent over, placed her hands on her knees and spit. She paused for a moment, investigating the clean, wet circle her saliva had punched into the mud-scrubbed floorboards.

"Well, well, dere's our Wee Mallet."

The jibe was greeted by a few chuckles. Molly slowly straightened up and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She peered through the dim haze of cigar smoke and made out a shadowy figure to her left. She turned toward him.

"Is dat you, Lung?" she asked sweetly, clasping her hands behind her back.

"Sure is, dahlin'," he crowed, waving his police badge under a dusty sunbeam so that a flash of gold shot across Molly's chest. His other hand reached out for the drink in front of him. There was a loud crunch and a bellow of pain and then Lung was clutching a bruised hand to his chest. The badge dropped to the floor and Molly sent it clattering towards the back wall with a tap of her boot. "Wha'd ya go an' do dat foah?" he stuttered as laughter erupted around them.

"I told you once, I told you a hunnit times, Lung. I ain't wee. I ain't no mallet. An' I sure as hell ain't your dahlin'." She tossed the mallet behind her back and caught it over her shoulder. "I'se Molly. Moll ta me friends." Her eyes narrowed. "You bettah stick wit' Molly." Lung scowled and whipped his head towards the bar.

"Ay Mallet, cantcha keep a handle on dis goil no more?" he complained over the din.

A short, thickset man emerged from behind the bar, wiping a greasy stein with an even greasier cloth. "Shut ya gan and drink ya beer, Lungsy, or I'll let her get a handle on you. Git back to da bar, Moll. Ya late."

Molly followed after Mallet, grinning and waggling her fingers at Lung, who eyed her resentfully over the top of his glass.

"Wheah were ya?" Mallet asked loudly as they pushed their way through the scruff. There was an edge to his voice. Molly frowned.

"I was runnin' some errands down by da Points. Got held up by dis slowpoke," she nodded her towards the doorway where Roller, face red and streaming sweat, had finally materialized. "Why, what's da matta?"

They slid behind the bar together and Mallet bent to set the smudged stein beneath the counter. Molly intercepted the mug and began to scrub it in earnest with a fresh rag. Mallet didn't seem to notice. He slumped against the back shelves and mopped his shining brow with the filthy greasecloth, staining leathery skin with long black streaks. "We'se bin gettin' slammed. I ain't seen Cuttah since last night—"

"You ain't seen Cuttah neithah? What—"

"—an' den you off 'n runnin' about in the Points as you please, it's jus' been me 'n Rollah, an' you know how Rollsy gets when t'ings get too rowdy."

Molly glanced over just in time to see Lung winding up to deliver Roller a kick in the rear as the boy bent over to retrieve the fallen police badge. She smashed her mallet onto the countertop and hissed menacingly at Lung, who clenched his fists and turned away. Then she turned back to Mallet, placing a hand on her cocked hip. "So dat's it? You jus' been a little busy is all?"

Mallet gently fingered the cudgel in his own belt loop; this one was bigger and heavier than Molly's, and its head was tipped with dented steel plate. "Watch yaself, missy. You got dat mallet 'cuz I gave it to ya, but remembah I was born wit' one in my paws. You ain't tasted it yet, but keep givin' me lip like dat an' you will." Molly made a face and let her hand drop from her hip.

"Arright, arright, I'm sahrry Mallet. Tell me ya troubles an' I'll poah you a drink. Hob or nob?" Without waiting for an answer, she filled the newly-clean mug with foaming brown ale from a keg below the bar and handed it to Mallet. After a few lengthy swigs, he spoke.

"Battle Annie's crew a' been in n' outta heah all day. Real quiet-like. Sittin' in da cornahs, whisperin', lookin' around. Dere's somethin' brewin' wit' dem."

Molly frowned. It was unusual for the Lady Rabbits to hang around the Row in daylight hours. Battle Annie much preferred the dark holes—rabbit-holes, she called them—that the women had carved out for themselves in the various basements of Hell's Kitchen. Battle Row was ruled by Happy Jack Mulraney, and Annie liked to keep her distance. The only times she could be seen at the Row were during her biweekly meetings with Happy Jack and his top Rabbits—and these were late at night, long after Molly had been sent off.

"So what gives? You ain't hoid nothin'?" She asked.

"Hahdly. Ain't even seen Annie haself yet. But Sadie the Goat come in earliah, tol' me to have da place on lock tanight. Wouldn' say what foah, but the only heads I'm sapposed ta have in or out are da Ladies, Happy Jack 'n Razah. So afta suppah I want you an Rollah cleared out, ya heah?" He turned his head to call through the doorway behind the bar that opened into a small kitchen: "YOU HEAH DAT ROLLAH?"

"Yeah, boss," came Roller's muffled reply. Mallet turned back to Molly, who shrugged.

"Shuah, chief. I gotta hand to play anyway." Mallet snorted.

"Long as you don' lose it. Youse payin' rent tamarra, and youse payin' it befoah ya go runnin' off to da Points again, ya heah?"

It wasn't a question. Quick as a cat, Molly shot out her hand and seized Mallet's half-empty stein off the bartop. She managed to get two good gulps before Mallet plucked it from her lips. He drained it and mussed the fearful black tangle atop her head.

"Now git outta heah, Wee Mallet," he said with a smirk. Molly tapped his hand away lightly with the handle of her cosh, spun on her heel and marched off to the kitchen to join Roller.


	2. Chapter 2: The Dead Rabbits

The sky faded from purple to black over the West Side, and Roller sat alone rolling marbles on the small patch of bare floor next to his cot. He had just crawled beneath the cot to fetch a stray cat's eye when the window jammed open with a screech. Roller smacked his head on the frame in surprise, yelped and quickly covered his mouth. Molly snickered as she wriggled across the dusty sill on her belly, somersaulting through the air and landing in a heap on the floor next to Roller. He crawled out from the beneath the cot and settled himself back in front of his marbles.

"Well, it was tough broads tanight, Rollsy. I lost it all, right down ta my last dace." Molly grimaced, then brightened.

"Say, can I get a hogg from ya? Mallet's fuse is boinin' shortah n' shortah dese days, and I'd prefers not to light him up on account o' the rent again."

Roller bit his lip. "You know dis is the thoid week in a row, Moll…" his voice quavered and trailed off as Molly's fingers twitched toward the mallet in her belt loop.

"And?" she said loudly.

"And…and heah," he conceded, fishing a ten-cent piece from his pocket and tossing it to Molly. "But you oughta be more quietah," he continued in a whisper, turning over a silver shooter in his hands. "Battle Annie 'n Happy Jack're down deah wit' their crews. I hoid 'em comin' in and they didn't sound none too pleased."

"Yeah? Wha'd you heah?" Molly asked with mild interest.

"Couldn' hahdly heah anythin' ovah the din on da street, but deah was somet'in' about newspapehs 'n I thought I hoid Cuttah's name—" Molly's head shot up.

"Cuttah? What about Cuttah? Is he down deah?" Roller shrugged.

"I dunno, may be, I told you, I ain't hahdly hoid nothin'—" Molly stood and made her way to the low-slung door. Roller watched with wide eyes but made no move to stop her.

"Now dis I gotta see," she muttered, cracking the door just wide enough to slip through and easing it shut carefully behind her. Molly crawled along the musty wood paneling of the narrow hall, coming to a halt at the top of the stairs and stretching out onto her belly. She pressed her cheek to the floor, making sure to keep well away from the slatted railing. If she held perfectly still she could just hear the low murmur of voices drifting up from below.

"—but it still isn't _cleah_ to me why dere was Baby Gophas gettin' run around by a hack o' nancy newsboys up and down Pahk Row dis mornin'. Razah, did I give any kinda ah-thorization for da kiddies ta make a spectacle of demselves in Monk Eastman's quartah taday?"

"Not dat I can recall, Jacky."

"Thank you, Razah. So if you please, Miss Annie, explain to me and our compatriots heah why I'm gettin' reports from all a' my men that the Rabbits is the laughingstock of Hell's Kitchen tanight."

A low, gritty female voice spoke up.

"I'm sahrry, Jack, I was gonna tell youse about da plan yestaday, but you was off somewhere—but we couldn' wait foah ya, cuz Pulitzah needed us ta_day_—"

"Pulitzah? _Pulitzah?_"

"Yeah, Pulitzah. See, da newsboys took it in dey heads to go on strike. Refusin' ta sell the _Woild_ an' the _Joinal_ on account a' somet'in or othah. Point is, Pulitzah wanted scabs so he sent talkahs straight ovah ta me lookin' for some Lady Rabbits. Well, hawkin' papes ain't no job for no grown harp, 'specially one of Rabbits calibah. So I said dey could have our kiddies. Figgah'd it'd be a fair match. They seemed pleased wit' it, paid me some o' it right up front ta boot."

"How much?"

"Hunnit."

"Gimme se'nty five."

"_Se'nty five_?" Jack, dat's…"

"Dat's fair, takin' into account the consiberable 'barrassment your tongue cost me taday. Next time yoah makin' a decision that doesn't concoin strickly tha Lady Rabbits, you come straight ta me. Now, care ta explain why ouah boys suddenly toined into a buncha wet Marys at Park Row dis mornin'?"

"Well dat's da thing, Jack, we'se aren' too sure yet just what happened—none a' da kiddies is been back to the paddin' ken since the strike. Dey's prolly just scared, but they gotta come back sometime, and I got Gallus Mag layin' in wait for Cuttah when they do. I told 'er come here direct—"

At that moment there was a loud crash from the front of the house, causing everyone, including Molly, to start. Molly picked her head up slightly and shifted closer to the banister, peeking out over the landing. Directly below her was the bar, behind which she could just make out the top of Mallet's graying head and his freckled, meaty hands. A group of hard-looking women sat scattered about the two tables nearest the bar. At a third table in the center of the room sat three figures. Molly had only seen Battle Annie once before, but the mass of wild brown curls sprouting from her head and the chipped battle-axe hanging at her side were unmistakable. The two men Battle Annie sat facing had their backs to Molly, but she had heard those voices chewing out other Dead Rabbits often enough to know that they belonged to Happy Jack Mulraney and Razor Reilly. At that moment, all of the heads in question were turned towards the front door, and Molly watched with the rest of them as a hunched, many-legged creature stumbled in out of the darkness.

With a snarl the creature whipped its misshapen head forward into the light and two bodies separated; one went sprawling in front of the center table, while the other straightened up and licked its lips. Molly's eyes widened in shock as the boy on the floor rolled over onto his back and cupped one hand over a bloodied ear.

"_Cuttah_," she breathed to herself.

"_Cuttah_!" Mallet roared. "What—" But the second creature interrupted him as it stepped fully into the light, revealing a ferocious-looking woman nearly six feet in height wearing a man's trousers held up by thick red suspenders. She gave a little nod towards Happy Jack, then looked directly at Battle Annie as she spoke.

"Found dis one tryin' a' sneak back inta da paddin' ken just now. Dunno where the othahs are, but it don' matta much. They won' be gone much longah wit'out their leadah." Gallus Mag spat blood and grinned, revealing a row of crooked, razor-sharp teeth. Happy Jack turned to look down at Cutter. Molly still couldn't see Jack's face, but she knew the smile was frozen there; knew it in the fear that flashed across Cutter's eyes. She grew nervous and slipped the mallet from her belt loop and began to twirl it around her fingers.

"Stand up, Cuttah," Happy Jack said softly. Cutter stood and pushed a mess of dirty blonde hair from his eyes. An uncertain silence hung about them. Battle Annie looked as though she were straining very hard not to speak; her lips were pressed tightly together and her cheeks were aflame. Finally, Happy Jack spoke.

"So. Tell me a story, kid." Cutter took a deep breath, still clutching his ear tightly.

"Well…well, it was like dis, Happy Jack. I took da boys out dis mornin' and headed out ovah ta Fifty-Ninth and Ninth to one o' da distributin' wagons for da mornin' papes. There was about forty a' us. We was on orders from Battle Annie, they wanted us as scabbahs for da newsie strike. So we get ovah there and staht hawkin' our papes, when around da cornah comes the biggest gang a' kids youse evah seen—a hunnit of 'em, maybe even two hunnit—an' we tried ta hold our groun' but they was too many of 'em, Happy Jack. Me 'n Muggsy an' a few othah guys gotta few good cuts in but we hadda run in de end."

"Hadda run, didja? Dat may be so." Happy Jack leaned forward. "But where did you run _to_, Mistah Cuttah?" Cutter shifted his weight from one leg to the other and clutched his free hand into a fist at his side.

"De newsies chased us up Pahk and den we lost 'em. But I didn' wanna take de boys back 'cuz…'cuz I knew Battle Annie was gonna be waitin' foah us. I figgah'd we'd lay low for a while and come back maybe tamarra, when t'ings is cooled down an' all. But we didn' have no money on account a' we spent it all buyin' papes dis mornin' and den not sellin' any. So dat's why I come back, see if I could fork some brass for grub. And dat's it," he finished. Happy Jack stroked his chin.

"And wheah are the othas?"

"Out at da docks, sah." Happy Jack nodded at Gallus Mag, who spun on her heel and stalked back out into the night. He then turned slowly towards Battle Annie and cocked his head.

"So, Miss Annie, you'se had all day ta mull dis ovah in ya nog. Allow me to reiterate foah ya exactly what we got on ouah hands heah, and den I wanna hear what course of action tha great Battle Annie has in mind.

"We gotta kiddie gang dat don' got no reason ta trust their leadahs no more. We got Joe Pulitzah wonderin' what da hell happened taday, and pretty near he's gonna send in the crushas to find out. And last, but soitinly not least, we got chased outta Monk Eastman's territory in broad daylight by a pack a' primroses." He paused, which Battle Annie took as an invitation to speak.

"Well see, Jack, I been thinkin' about it, and it seems ta me shouldn't be too hard ta fix up, jus' let me send my goils in tamarra an' they'll take care o' dem newsboys quick and through—"

"_THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT THE MONK WANTS, YOU GODDAMN FOOL OF A LACED MUTTON, HE'LL HAVE AN AHMY OF EASTMANS LAYIN' IN WAIT FOAH YA AN' TAKE YA RIGHT THEAH ON PARADISE SQUAH—_"

Happy Jack broke off and whipped his head around to face the bottom of the staircase, where the mallet Molly had dropped in shock had clattered to a rest. The room fell utterly silent. Molly's stomach rolled as she held her breath and pressed her face flat to the landing. Mallet's voice was low and strained.

"Git down here, Molly."


	3. Chapter 3: Happy Jack Mulraney

Molly scrambled to push herself up from the unswept floor, in her nervousness forgetting to brush off the stripe of dust that trailed down her front. For a moment—just for a moment—she thought to run; but then she remembered there was nowhere to run to, and the moment was past. She kept her eyes to her feet as she descended into the bar, but she knew they were all watching her. Happy Jack was watching her. _Oh God oh God oh God—_

Out of habit she jumped the final two steps and came to a halt before an apron that had probably been white at some point. She fixed her eyes on a particularly nasty stain that looked like it might have been blood. Mallet cleared his throat. Molly squinted harder, refusing to raise her head. "_Moll_," he said quietly. She finally looked up. Mallet's face was beet-red and quivering, his jaw tensed. Molly wasn't afraid; not of Mallet, anyway. She was probably looking at dish duty for the next month, and that meant no more gambling, but Mallet would eventually come around. No, it wasn't him she was afraid of; it was—

"Well, well, well. Whatta we got here, Mallet?"

Molly saw a shot of fear pass across Mallet's face as he ran a thick hand through graying, greasy hair. Silently she begged him with her eyes to save her, send her away, do _something_—

"Dis, ah…Happy Jack, dis is Molly. She's ah…she's a runner and a snotter for the Baby Gophas."

Jack sniffed loudly and hocked out something wet onto the floor. Molly could feel his eyes on her but remained facing Mallet.

"And what, may I ask, is she doin' tossin' a cosh around your garret, when the Baby Gophas' paddin' ken is down on 37th?"

"She, ah…I took her in Jack, a few years ago, found 'er wanderin' out by the docks, no parents, no place to—"

"Arright, that's enough. Hey kitty-cat, come on ovah here and humor Happy Jack, will ya?"

Taking a deep breath, willing herself not to be sick, Molly spun on her heels to face the room and was relieved to find that most of its inhabitants were wholly disinterested; Razor Reilly had remained seated and was using a long, rectangular razor blade to pick at his teeth, and Gallus Mag was fiddling with something in her pocket—probably an ear. Only Cutter and Battle Annie, who up until moments ago had been taking the brunt of Jack's rage, looked on. Molly forced herself to avoid Cutter's curious stare and looked directly at Jack, and had to suppress a gasp, for she had never seen his face this close before.

Happy Jack had gotten his name because his long, gaunt face was frozen in a permanent grin. Some said that his face had been paralyzed at birth, but others said that one night as a boy a demon had taken hold of him and caused him to slaughter his own parents with a butcher knife, and he hadn't stopped smiling since. Molly wasn't too sure about that one, but she did know for a fact that Happy Jack would kill any man who dared to ask about the smile (according to Mallet, he had done so right in this very bar, eight years back). Trying to push these thoughts from her mind, Molly stepped lightly forward into the light and waited. Jack's eyes glittered darkly.

"Hmm…this is intarestin', Mallet. She's a runnah you say?"

"An' a snottah, yeah…"

Jack took a step closer and reached out to caress her face. Molly flinched when his thin, cold fingertips brushed across her cheek, but didn't back away.

"How old are you, buttahcup?" He breathed.

"F-fifteen," she gasped out. His smile seemed to widen and he stepped away again.

"Mallet, youse got a beautiful young goil here, practically a woman, and you been keepin' her hidin' away in ya garret? This ain't no face to waste, Mallet."

"No Jack, I, ah…I reckon not."

"Well den it's settled," Jack turned back to Molly. "From now on, peach, ya answer to me."

Molly gulped and nodded mutely. _What had she gotten herself into?_

Jack looked to Battle Annie and Cutter. "We got business to discuss, but later. This goil may save yoah skins yet, but we don't have no time to lose." He turned to face Razor Reilly, still seated at the table.

"Razor. Tune 'er up."

Mallet bellowed and lunged across the bar, shattering a glass in the process, but Gallus Mag threw up a hefty arm to stop him. Razor stepped swiftly around the table and raised his arm over Molly's head; she only saw the heavy brickbat at the last moment, and by then it was too late. She was on the floor and her vision was swimming; before she could catch her senses, another blow landed on her cheek and her ears rang. As she lay on the ground, clutching her eye, a large boot sailed into her midsection and then she was curled in a ball, too winded to even cry. The room was utterly silent save for Mallet's ragged breathing. Blow after blow rained down on her until—

"That's enough."

Molly lay shuddering in a small pool of blood, barely conscious. A pair of black boots swam into her vision and then Jack was leaning down, right up to her face.

"I'm sorry to mess up that pretty face a' yours, darlin', but it had to be done. Now listen heah. Eyes open! Listen. Mag here is gonna take ya an lay ya out in front a' da newsboys' lodgin' house. They's gonna wake up, see ya there moanin' like a wounded puppy, and feel all kinds a sorry for ya. An' you're gonna let 'em. You're gonna let 'em take ya in and you're gonna earn their trust and you're gonna my spy, my little boidy. Sound good, buttahcup?"

Molly blinked her unswollen eye in assent, unable to do anything else. Then she passed out.

"Arright. Round it up, boys."


	4. Chapter 4: Brooklyn

"AY! AY, SHINS! YA GOTTA SEE DIS, GET DOWN HEAH!"

"Whatta you yappin' about, Little Mikey, we don't got time for dis—_Jesus Christ._"

Molly's eyes fluttered open to a cold, gray spring light. A pair of skinny, trousered legs knelt down before her and a blurry face floated into her line of vision.

"It's a goil!" The face gasped. "She's alive, Shins, lookit 'er eyes!" A second face appeared before her.

"Jesus fuckin' hell, just barely. Lookit her. 'Ey. 'Ey goily, what's ya name?"

Molly groaned in response.

"Eh? Speak up, we can't hear ya!" This remark was followed by the sound of a slap and a sharp cry.

"Ay Shins, what'd ya do dat for?"

"You dimwit, she can't fuckin' talk! Go get Spot, he'll know what ta do."

Moments later there was the sound of rumbling feet and a crowd of ragged boys had surrounded the body curled on their doorstep.

"Lemme through, lemme through, ya bummas, I can't do nothin' if I can't see nothin'."

Molly sensed a new presence, a stronger presence, before her, and forced herself to open her good eye. It met with a pair of blue ones, framed by a fringe of loose dirty-blonde hairs.

"What's yoah name, goil?"

"M….M….Molly," she breathed, just before she passed out again.

"Ah, Christ," Spot muttered, standing up again to face the circle of wide-eyed boys.

"Whatta we gonna do wit' her, Spot?" Asked Little Mikey breathlessly. Spot tapped his cane against his foot lightly, then turned to the largest of the pack.

"Bones, you take 'er and get her up to the bunkroom. Then come back down heah. Shins, you go wit' 'em, and stay there til we finish sellin'. Clean 'er up or somethin', I dunno. At least get 'er some water."

"Ah, Spot, I don't wanna be stuck wit' some goil- _ow!_" Spot's cane flashed out of nowhere and rapped sharply over Shins's head.

"Arright, aright, I'll dress 'er wounds and cook 'er up a feast an' read 'er stories by the fireside—_ow!_"

Spot frowned impatiently. "Git goin', all a' ya. We got papes ta sell."

Bones knelt down and grabbed the girl around the middle, heaving her over his shoulder like a rag doll. Shins, still rubbing his head and muttering, followed them inside.

…

Molly woke gasping and screaming to something cold being splashed over her face. Her hands flailed out and connected with something soft.

"_Ow!_ Christ, why am I the one takin' all the hits today?"

Molly looked around to see who had spoken. The swelling around her eye had gone down a bit, so she was able to see much better now. She seemed to be lying on a hard cot in a medium-sized, dingy bunkroom. Next to her cot, a long-legged, skinny boy of about her own age was bending down to retrieve his fallen cap from the floor, rubbing the side of his head.

"Sahrry," Molly rasped out, "musta got carried away when ya tried ta drown me."

The boy straightened up immediately. "Hey!" He cried indignantly, "I wasn't tryna drown ya! Ya been out all mornin' and I was just tryna—hey, you know where you are? An' who you are?"

Molly blinked, then shook her head slowly. _Play dumb._

"I'm Molly. I think. But dat's all I got. Where am I? An' how did I get heah? An' who are you?"

"Woah, slow down there, Tiga. I'm Shins. I'm a Brooklyn newsie, and dis here buildin' is the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodgin' House. And as for how ya got here, I don't got tha foist clue. Me an' Little Mikey found ya all tuned up like dis on our doorstep this mornin' an' our boss said for me ta keep an eye on ya till he gets back. Should be soon. Then we'll figure out what ta do wit' ya. Say, youse eva hoid a' my boss? Spot? Spot Conlon?"

_Of course I've heard of Spot Conlon, little prick newsboy who wanders around claiming to be the King of Brooklyn._

Molly shook her head. "Nosiree, can't say dat I have."

Shins knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "Huh. Ya must not be from Brooklyn den, othawise you woulda hoid a' him. Everybody's hoid a' Spot Conlon."

"Yeah, well, I just said I ain't hoid a' him, aright? Now you gonna get me some water ta drink or youse just gonna sit there splashin' it in my face all day?"

"I—what?" Shins looked halfway between shocked and angry, as though he wasn't sure which one he should be.

"You hoid me. It's your job, ain't it, according to the great Spot Conlon? I can hahdly move here so if you ain't gonna get me water then you're gonna carry me to it."

Thoroughly confused at being addressed this way by a girl, Shins wandered off, bowl in hand, to fetch some water. As soon as he was out of the room, Molly sighed and rolled her eyes. This was a fine mess she had gotten herself into, and no foreseeable way out in the near future. She couldn't simply disobey Happy Jack and go back to Mallet's, and she couldn't very well run—even if she was physically able, Jack would have her hunted down in no time flat. The Dead Rabbits were too pervasive, their allies too many. A thought occurred to Molly, and she frantically began groping around in her pockets and beneath her clothes.

_My mallet. Damn._

They had left her to fend for herself amongst the Brooklyn newsboys without a weapon. She was quick with her fists, but with her size, it wouldn't be enough. She sighed again. She'd have to find something, and soon. With no money, that would be difficult. Maybe she could beat one out of a smaller child. That Little Mikey, for instance…

Just then there was a creak on the floorboards and Shins was shuffling back across the room, slopping water over the sides of the bowl with his loping gait.

"About time, ya bumma. I'm dyin' ova here."

Shins shook his head as he sat on the edge of Molly's bed and tilted the bowl toward her lips. "I dunno who you are, goily, but youse sure gotta mouth on ya. An' you bettah learn ta keep a lock on it quick, 'specially when Spot's around. He don't take lip from no one, 'specially not from goils."

Molly raised her eyebrows but drank her water in silence. This was going to be a long stay in Brooklyn.


	5. Chapter 5: Black Molly

Molly had tried to leave the cot several times, but each time was prevented by a searing pain in her side. She had probably cracked a rib, maybe even two. She had tried to fashion herself a bandage from the bedsheet but it was too thick, and of course Shins was no help. She would just have to wait until the rest of the newsies came back and find someone more competent to help her. In the meantime, she spent the remainder of the afternoon happily berating and ordering around Shins. By the end of it, poor Shins was so turned around that he nearly forgot who his real boss was, so that when he heard Spot's voice calling him downstairs, he yelled back:

"NOT NOW, SPOT, MOLLY WANTS—"

"MOLLY WANTS? _MOLLY WANTS? _SHINS IF YOU'RE NOT DOWN HEAH IN TEN SECONDS YOUR BODY IS GONNA BE FLOATIN' IN THE HARBOR—"

Shins seemed to come to his senses and flew down the stairs at once without a backwards glance. Molly strained to hear the murmur of voices coming from the stairwell but it wasn't long before footsteps were headed back her way. The door to the bunkroom burst open, admitting a ragtag bunch of boys in dirty caps. Just like that morning, Molly's cot was immediately surrounded, although this time, being conscious, she felt much more self-aware. What must she look like, anyway? Probably not good, considering she had taken a brickbat to the face. Almost as if on cue, a boy of about 8 with a smudged face and a pug nose leaned towards her:

"Wow, youse sure gotta shinah on you, goily! Who done soaked ya? Was it da Delancey brothas? Did ya—_oof!_"

He was cut off by a cane to the stomach.

"Stand back , all a' yas. Lemme get a look at 'er."

Mustering up what dignity she could, Molly crossed her arms and looked up at the Brooklyn leader. All she could think was: _This is Spot Conlon?_ Why, he was almost as skinny as herself, and hardly a head taller! Even Roller could take him in a fight, she bet. If it weren't for the cane and the cocky attitude, she wouldn't have been able to pick him out at all. She smirked. He frowned.

"Dunno what you're so smirky about, sweethaht. If I had a face like youse I'd prob'ly be cryin'."

Many of the boys suppressed snorts of laughter. Molly chose to ignore this jab. Instead she folded her arms tighter and glared defiantly into Spot's eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, so I got tuned up, I'm a damsel in distress, or whatevah you wanna call it. Now you gonna be my knight in shinin' armah or what?"

Spot's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Whatta you on about?"

Molly sighed. "You hoid me. I'm distressed. I don't know who I am or where I came from, and I gots nowhere ta go. So ya gonna let me stay or what?"

Spot's jaw tightened. "Foist of all, we don't take no goil lodgas. Now, I may have considered makin' a special exception just fah youse, since ya hoit. But here's the othah thing—we don't take no lodgas who can't pay their own way. Youse got any dough?"

Molly shook her head. "You think whoevah did this ta me woulda left me with a cent?"

Spot shrugged. "That ain't my problem, is it?"

"Well, believe me, if I had a choice I wouldn't be heah, but as it is I don't got nowhere else ta go. I can barely walk. Ain't there some kinda deal we's can woik out?"

Molly paused, waiting for Spot to respond, but he merely sucked his cheeks in and looked around at the other boys. So she went on:

"Arright, how 'bout dis. You let me bunk here fah free til's I'm good enough ta move around on me own. Den I'll stay on a little extra, woik ovahtime ta pay ya back. When my debt's paid, I'll scram."

A tall, lean-muscled boy to Spot's right leaned toward his ear and whispered, "Seems fair ta me, Spot. We can't just throw her out on tha streets like this. She'll die, fah Chrissake."

Spot nodded and said reluctantly, "Arright. Youse can stay, just until you get bettah and pay me back. Then ya gone."

He held out his hand for Molly to shake. She held out her own bruised one, and as he grabbed it he leaned down and pulled her towards him, so that their noses were practically touching.

"And if I hear anothah woid about you orderin' my newsies around like they're ya own, ya gonna be out on your bruised ass befoah you can say "sorry Spot." This is my territory. Got that?"

Molly wrinkled her nose as his hot breath washed over her face. "Yeah, yeah, whatevah. Thanks."

He released her, tapped his cane on the floorboards three times, and spun away. Most of the other boys followed suit, dispersing about the room to lie on their bunks or play cards. A few of the younger boys remained standing around her bed; Molly had to hide her disgust. She hated little kids (one of the main reasons she had refused to bunk down with the rest of the Baby Rabbits in their den, instead choosing to dwell in Mallet's garret).

The one with the pug nose was shifting from one foot to the other excitedly. "Hi, Molly! Ya remembah me? I'm Little Mikey, I'se the one who found ya this mornin'."

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "Nope. Can't say dat I do."

His eyes lit up. "Wow! Youse really don't remembah nothing, do ya? They musta soaked ya pretty good! Hey, can ya even think right wit' ya head all banged up like dat, or is it all just black in there? Hey, dat's what we should call ya! Black Molly! Or Black! Or somethin' like dat, ya know, cuz ya gotta have a nickname, and we'se don't know nothin' else about ya."

Taken aback by this sudden barrage of information, Molly just sat there in silence with her mouth slightly open. Interpreting this as approval, Little Mikey turned to the rest of the room and shouted:

"Oy, fellas! I's gotta nickname for da new goil! Black Molly! Get it? Cuz she don't remember nothin'? So it's like her mind is all black?"

Only a few boys looked up. A short, stout on with red hair called out from the corner: "That's a lousy nickname, ya bummah. It's longah den her real name."

"Yeah? Well so's mine!" Little Mikey retorted.

The redhead shrugged and went back to his cardgame. Little Mikey's face fell a bit as he turned back to Molly. "Well…well I'se still gonna call ya Black Molly. I like it."

Molly shrugged as well. "Whatevah, kid. Now scram. I'se tired."

Little Mikey and the other kids bolted as Molly laid back against the stiff pillow and closed her eyes.

_Black Molly_, she thought, suppressing a snort of laughter as she closed her eyes. _Ah, well. At least it's a damn sight better than Wee Mallet_.


	6. Prologue

Molly knew from the absence of her mother's screams that this time was different. _Oh Jesus oh Jesus don't—_

She tripped on her own bootlaces in her rush to get through the door, landing hands-first in a yellow puddle peppered with broken glass. Whiskey. Molly's breath caught in her throat, but the sound of her fall was muffled by the meaty thumps echoing from the back room. She drew herself up, hardly noticing the rough sting of her bloodslick palms, and crept towards the room. Sliding a small knife from deep within the pocket of her trousers, Molly peeked around the splintering doorframe.

It was dark and close. Dingy twilight shone through a single dirt-paned window, revealing two figures sprawled in a corner. Men or women, Molly couldn't tell— the empty bottles at their feet had reduced them to nothing more than dozing piles of rags. In the opposite corner another figure jerked fitfully beneath a bear-like shadow. Time slowed and Molly watched a bottleneck glitter glassily as it passed through the dusty moonbeam, arcing gracefully toward the writhing creature. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. _No no no no no—_

Jagged edges pierced flesh and the creature seized silently. Molly felt the knife begin to slip from her palm and let out a strangled cry. She threw herself flat to the floor as the shadow shifted and glass rained above her head and into her hair. The shadow took a step toward her and for a moment the moonlight fell across the twitching creature and Molly saw her mother's bloodstained hands scrabbling on the floorboards and the dark pool beneath her cheek, the ghastly toothless grin and the final blank whiteness where eyes should have been. _Ma—_

Molly's stomach rolled and she pushed herself up onto her knees and vomited. The bear-man spat in disgust and took another step towards her.

"Youse gonna clean that up before dinner, Moll?" it slurred.

"Please, Da," she gasped over the acid in her throat. "I—"

"Cuz it'd be a damn shame if you didn't clean all that up for your motha, afta she's been slavin' all day so you could stuff that pretty little mow a' yours."

Two more steps and now there was only an acrid pool of bile between Molly and the bear. Panting, she began to crawl backwards, her palms streaking blood across the mud-scrubbed floorboards. In the corner one of the dozing piles grunted and turned over. A hand shot out and seized Molly about the neck and suddenly her feet were dangling above the ground and she was face to face with her father. His eyes were glazed and unfocused beneath drooping lids, one corner of his mouth turned up in a snarl. Molly choked and spluttered and kicked feebly, but he only chuckled.

"Shh now, Little Moll, Da's here now," he breathed, tightening his grip. Unable to speak, tears began to stream down her face, and then Molly remembered the knife. She swung with all the strength she could muster and a thin red slash appeared on her father's arm. With a roar he jerked back, releasing her to fall into her own sick. Wheezing, she slipped and slid backwards into the front room and stumbled to her feet. She heard the clomp of workboots behind her but forced herself not to look, instead sprinting straight for the open doorway _Please oh please help me Lord let me out_


End file.
